


[S] Dirk: Present

by dark_def (dedicatedfollower467)



Series: Smells Like Belonging [8]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Anger, Drowning, Gen, Held Down, Hurt No Comfort, Intrusive Thoughts, Loneliness, Near Death, Nightmares, POV Second Person, Panic Attacks, Pesterlog(s) (Homestuck), Possessive Behavior, Pre-Slash, Psychological Trauma, Self-Harm, Sleep Paralysis, Solitary Confinement, Suicidal Thoughts, Touch-Starved, Trauma, Vomit Mention, i worry a lot about dirk strider okay, puberty sucks in the abo world
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-13
Updated: 2020-02-15
Packaged: 2021-02-19 15:03:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22646782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dedicatedfollower467/pseuds/dark_def
Summary: Dirk has been thinking about this for months. He's been planning, stockpiling, readying himself for the inevitable. Since he doesn't have a pack, isolated as he is in the middle of the ocean, he knows his presentation is going to be a bitch and a half to deal with. Nevertheless, he's been doing the research. He's pretty sure he can handle it.(Spoilers: he can't.)
Relationships: Jake English & Dirk Strider, Roxy Lalonde & Dirk Strider
Series: Smells Like Belonging [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1592716
Comments: 15
Kudos: 101





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> MMMMM I am REAL excited to finally get to share this fic with you all.
> 
> i fucking love doing absolutely horrible things to my favorite characters, and dirk is one of my favorites.
> 
> enjoy!

You’ve been thinking about it for months, ever since your tenth birthday, and it’s been even fresher in your mind for the past week, since Jane just had her first heat. And because you’re you, you’ve been planning for it like crazy.

There are two dozen bottles of water and almost fifty granola bars of various flavors stashed under your bed, as well as a CD of the most calming music you own. (90% of it consists of the cartoon-sound-effect-loaded soundtracks to the SBaHJ movies. The fifteen minute kazoo solo rendition of “Dream a Little Dream of Me” from _SBaHJ: The the Film_ is probably your favorite.) You’ve read up on meditative techniques and breath control, and have practiced them religiously every day.

You’ve also been doing research on the psychology of childhood packlessness. The field consists almost entirely of isolated case studies involving severely cognitively disabled children and a smattering of astonishingly cruel experimental studies conducted on monkeys in the 1950s by one particular guy. On the one hand, it’s frustrating that you don’t have solid experimental data about humans and therefore have little ability to predict what your own experiences might be like. On the other, you’re kind of relieved that other people didn’t have to go through this.

Then, a little over a week after Jane presented, you wake up in the middle of the night, panting and breathless and absolutely fucking _terrified_. Your eyes are open, but you can’t move, lying on your bed like a limp puppet, as if someone has reached inside your brain and switched off your locomotor function.

 _Something_ is on your chest, heavy and dark, and you can’t see it properly, but you’re having trouble breathing through the weight on top of you, gasping for every inhalation and unsure if you’ll even be _able_ to take another one. Whatever the thing is, it is whispering something low and unintelligible that doesn’t sound like English, like _any_ human language.

You’ve never been so fucking scared in your entire life.

When the thing finally disappears, and you can breathe and move again, you book it for the bathroom, slam and lock the door, flip on the light, and have a complete fucking breakdown on the floor of the shower.

“Sleep paralysis,” you tell yourself, aloud, because you’ve done more than your fair share of Wikipedia spelunking, and you’ve heard of this, you _know_ what this is.

“Sleep paralysis,” you say again, even as you fight to get your breathing under control, to calm your racing heart, to quell the tears that are sliding down your cheeks, and keep losing. “You had a little error with the scheduling of your REM sleep and waking, you were hallucinating. You are safe, there’s nothing out there, there’s never anything out there, you are alone in this apartment, like you always fucking have been.”

Telling yourself this somehow fails to bring you any comfort.

Eventually, you return to your bedroom, but can’t manage to fall back to sleep the whole rest of the night. You jump at the slightest sounds, even the noises of slightly larger ocean waves washing against the struts of your apartment, and you _hate_ feeling so stupid and weak and cowardly.

“It was a fucking hallucination,” you say aloud again. “There’s nothing _out there_.”

The sun breaks slowly through your window, and you give the fuck up on sleep. The only other person who might be awake at this time is Roxy, so you fire up Pesterchum to see if she’s online right now. You almost collapse in relief when you see that she is.

\--timaeusTestified began pestering tipsyGnostalgic at 06:12--  
TT: Good morning, Roxy.  
TG: heya dirk  
TG: ur not usually up this early  
TG: somethin happen?  
TT: Just bad dreams, it’s nothing.  
TG: pfff sure its nothing thats why u immediately hopped on the line w me  
TT: You have no idea how long I’ve been awake.  
TT: As a matter of fact I’ve been up for several hours already.  
TT: I didn’t “immediately hop on the line” with you.  
TG: aw u had trouble fallin back 2 sleep?

Sometimes, it’s genuinely irritating how well Roxy knows you.

TT: No. I decided I had some projects I wanted to work on.  
TG: mm hm to distract urself from the nightmare i get it  
TT: No, I told you, I had projects I wanted to work on, the nightmare had nothing to do with it.  
TT: I wouldn’t even call it a nightmare, more like a bad dream.  
TT: It wasn’t even all that big of a deal, it just woke me up.  
TG: lmao its fine dirk i distract myself from nightmares by doing weird shit all the time  
TG: its no biggie  
TT: I wasn’t distracting myself from anything.  
TT: I don’t know why you’re harping on about this, Roxy.  
TT: I wouldn’t even be thinking about that dream right now if you didn’t keep bringing it up.  
TT: There isn’t even a reason why I would be thinking about this dream, it wasn’t very remarkable.  
TG: lmao wow SOMEBODY woke up on the wrong side of the bed this mornin  
TG: srsly when did this nightmare happen u sound like u got like two hours of sleep  
TT: It wasn’t that long ago. I had plenty of sleep.  
TG: lmao whatever you say mr grumpy gus

You’re actually grinding your teeth in frustration, notice you’re doing it, and make yourself stop. Roxy isn’t usually this difficult, you don’t know why she’s being so irritating today.

TT: I’m not grumpy.  
TG: sure ur not

You’re _not_ grumpy _._

You’re just…

Huh.

You’re… growling.

Like, actually, legitimately growling, low rumbling in the back of your throat and snarl starting to curl your upper lip. Deep, animalistic, and savage, even to your own ears.

That’s… really weird.

You swallow, forcing yourself to stop, take a couple of deep breaths to calm yourself. Honestly, Roxy’s probably right. You probably are a touch irritable because you got a few less hours of rest than you normally would, thanks to the sleep paralysis.

You’ll be damned if you actually tell her that though.

TT: Let’s change the subject.  
TT: What have you been up to this morning?  
TG: lmao ok we dont have to talk about it  
TG: ive mostly been playin with teh kittehs  
TG: oh and one of the chess dudes stopped by so i gave him a pumpkin  
TG: he was super pleased with it ate the whole thing up in like two bites  
TG: wbu?  
TG: what r these projects u been workin on?

Well.

You don’t actually have any active projects, because you finished up your most recent puppet last week, and Roxy knows that already, and you can’t think up a convincing lie off the top of your head.

TT: Mostly, I’ve been practicing my meditation.  
TG: lmao dirk thats not a project

You catch yourself starting to snarl again and stop it right away. You don’t know what’s wrong with you today. Apparently sleep deprivation hits you much harder than you originally assumed.

(You’re sleep deprived all the time, actually. Your sleep habits are fucking terrible. That’s never made you this hair-trigger before. You elect to ignore this fact.)

TT: Well, for me, it actually is.  
TT: I’ve been doing a lot of research into presentation.  
TT: Many of the strategies for managing the more unpleasant symptoms of initial heats, ruts, and Beta presentations include meditation techniques, to ground and center the mind.  
TT: I’ve been practicing so that when I do present, those techniques are instinctive muscle memory, ones that I can use without having to consciously think about them.  
TG: lol presenting? ur like ten dirk  
TT: Yes, and Jane is younger than either of us by four and a half months and presented as an Omega a week ago.  
TT: You should honestly be thinking about this, too.  
TG: nah  
TG: i think ur being paranoid  
TG: ur doing that thing again where ya go overboard on ur projects

Your teeth are grinding again. This time you don’t bother to try to stop yourself, sucking in quick, harsh breaths through your nose.

TT: I am not paranoid, I’m practical.  
TT: Think about it, Roxy. Neither of us have a pack of any kind, let alone a stable pack. You know, the single most important factor in a safe and healthy presentation?  
TT: And there is very little literature on the subject of completely packless presentations, because even groups of war orphans without any adults to take care of them will form packs with each other.  
TT: Granted, many of them end up trauma bonding to each other and have whole hosts of psychological issues in the future because of the traumatic nature of their presentations.  
TT: But that’s even more concerning for our cases, because there are no well-documented case studies of children presenting in complete isolation, only rumors and hearsay.  
TT: The likelihood that our presentations will be deeply traumatizing, potentially resulting in devastating long-term psychological effects, is extremely high.  
TT: It is perfectly reasonable to be concerned about this.  
TG: ok wow  
TG: ur taking this really seriously huh  
TT: Because it’s a serious subject, Roxy.  
TT: We may both already be looking at long-term socio-psychological deficiencies, simply because of our upbringing in isolation from other humans and a lack of pack structure.  
TT: All of those potential problems could be further exacerbated by a traumatic presentation.  
TT: I’m doing everything I can to mitigate this possibility.  
TT: Thus, meditation.  
TG: wow geez ur grouchy today  
TT: I am not.  
TG: grouch grouch grouch grouch  
TT: I am not grouchy. You’re the one who’s being unreasonably difficult here.  
TG: lmao no im not  
TG: at least not more than usual  
TG: ur being a real jerk tho jesus i just asked a fuckin question  
\-- timaeusTestified ceased pestering tipsyGnostalic \--  
TG: dirk?  
\-- timaeusTestified is an idle chum!--  
TG: jfc fine whatevs

And you’re growling again. Lovely.

You don’t know why everything is so _frustrating_ today.

It’s really starting to get on your nerves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The fictional study Dirk references regarding “childhood packlessness” in monkeys is actually based on real-life studies about the mother-infant bond in rhesus macaques. Search “Harry Harlow” if you’re interested. I think it has really fascinating implications for Dirk and Roxy’s psychology, (and Jake’s and Jade’s as well) both in this AU and in canon. Even if it is a pretty fucked up thing to do to a monkey.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dirk chats with Jake, and realizes something rather important.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *vibrates wildly* this fic is so fucking fun to write.

You sit staring at your computer, still stewing over how incredibly stubborn Roxy has been so far this morning and how _annoyed_ it makes you, when you see an alert light up on your Pesterchum window.

Jake is online, and he’s trying to contact you. A tiny smile lights your face when you see his handle. Jake will be _so_ much easier to talk to than Roxy. Of course, you’ve got no idea why he’s up, considering how late it is for him. You click on the Pesterchum window.

\-- golgothasTerror began pestering timaeusTestified at 07:03 --  
GT: Evening dirk!  
GT: Or is it morning for you?  
GT: Blast i never can remember which way the time difference goes.  
GT: Are you even awake yet? Or have you not gone to sleep?  
TT: I’m awake. It’s morning over here.  
TT: The better question is why are you awake? It’s the middle of the night.  
GT: Well frankly dirk i just couldnt get to sleep!  
GT: Ive been tossing and turning but i cant get a single one of those forty winks!  
TT: Why not? What’s keeping you up?  
GT: … *darts eyes around nervously*  
TT: Jake. What happened?  
GT: Well golly dirk i… I thought i heard a strange noise is all.  
TT: What kind of noise? Where did it come from?  
GT: It was outside. A slight rustling.  
GT: It was probably just one of those fairy bull fellows beating its wings against the glass!  
GT: Im probably getting my knickers in a twist over nothing.  
TT: Bullshit. It’s not nothing.

Something in your chest is painfully tight. There are all kinds of incredibly dangerous monsters on Jake’s island. In your mind’s eye, you suddenly see his body, broken and bloodied, clothing torn, prone under an enormous figure with fangs and claws poised to rip him apart. You start growling again at the thought, even as your heart starts pumping harder.

GT: Well now we dont need to go making mountains out of molehills dirk.  
GT: Im sorry i said anything i really only came online for a chat. Help me settle my nerves.  
GT: And im sorry to say you havent exactly been settling them!  
TT: Jake, listen to me, you could be in serious danger right now.  
TT: What’s the most defensible room in your house? How quickly can you get there?  
GT: I mean i suppose its grandmas lab but youve really got me spooked now dirk.  
TT: Get there as fast as you can, I’m on my way.

You’re rising out of your seat already, transitioning to Pesterchum on your phone. You _have_ to protect Jake, he’s one of the best friends you have. You can’t let anything happen to him.

GT: Erm dirk?  
GT: Did you forget about the giant ocean separating us?  
TT: Fuck.

You did. How did you forget that? Not to mention the, y’know, _four hundred years_ thing.

TT: I’ve got the sendificator. I could try sending myself.  
GT: I thought you said that thing was the size of a microwave!?  
TT: Yeah, it is, but I could do pieces at a time.  
GT: Dirk what the fuck!?  
GT: Are you actually frigging suggesting MUTILATING YOURSELF to get to me?  
GT: Over a couple of weird noises?  
GT: Absolutely not! Youre staying right where you are buster!  
GT: If it worries you so much ill go check on that noise myself!  
TT: No, Jake, do not leave the house.

Adrenaline is pulsing through your body, and you’re breathing quickly now, almost hyperventilating. A continuous growl is forcing its way out of your throat and you don’t even bother to try holding it back. Your fingers close around the grip of your sword and you are ready to go on the attack at any fucking moment.

When Jake doesn’t respond to you for a bit, panic starts to fill your chest, and once more you picture him lying dead on the ground somewhere, abominations feasting on his corpse.

TT: Jake?  
TT: Jake, where the fuck are you?  
TT: Do not leave the house.  
TT: I swear to god, if you’ve left I’ll fucking kill you.  
TT: Jake?  
TT: Fucking answer me.  
TT: Oh god. Okay, Jake, I’m coming over there. I’ll be there as fast as I can.  
TT: Jake, please answer me.  
TT: Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck  
GT: Sweet jiminy christmas hold your fucking horses dirk.

Relief surges through you at the sight of that green text, but it doesn’t last long.

TT: Why didn’t you answer me?  
GT: I was putting my shoes on! It takes a minute!  
TT: Oh fuck no, Jake, do NOT leave the house!  
TT: Listen, I’m on my way I’m almost to the sendificator.  
GT: And what EXACTLY am i gonna do with the BLOODY FUCKING PIECES OF MY BEST FRIEND DIRK??  
GT: *LITERAL* BLOODY PIECES ILL REMIND YOU!!!  
TT: I HAVE to get there, Jake!  
TT: You don’t understand, I don’t matter, nothing about me matters, we’ll deal with it when I’m actually there.  
GT: YOU ARE NOT KILLING YOURSELF ON MY WATCH.  
GT: I am going to end this nonsense once and for all by proving that whatever i heard was JUST SOME GODDAMN TREES BLOWING IN THE GODDAMN WIND.  
GT: I will be right back.  
TT: DON’T YOU FUCKING DARE!

You finally get to the sendificator, and boot it up. Fuck, it takes too _fucking_ long to turn on, Jake could have left by now, he could be _dead_ already fuck fuck fuck fuck-

GT: CHEESE AND CRACKERS DIRK WHAT IS YOUR FUCKING PROBLEM!?  
GT: Why are you acting so goddamn weird tonight!?  
TT: Excuse me for not wanting you to FUCKING DIE!  
GT: Dirk im not going to die for petes sake.  
GT: Im getting roxy on the case maybe shell be able to convince you.

Roxy.

Now suddenly you’re not just picturing Jake’s broken body - Roxy is in that image now, too, blood soaking into her hair and skirt. Your stomach rebels at the thought, and for half a second, you think you’re genuinely going to be sick.

Pink text flashes across your screen and you answer immediately.

\-- tipsyGnostalgic began pestering timaeusTestified at 07:46--  
TG: dirk wtf is going on  
TT: Roxy. Are you okay?  
TT: Fuck, I’m sorry for cutting out on you like that, is everything all right?  
TG: yeh im fine but jakes telling me ur acting real weird with him 2  
TG: better question r YOU ok?  
TT: Tell him not to leave the house, Roxy. Please.  
TT: There’s something out there that’s going to hurt him.  
TT: Fuck, you too, get to a safe place.  
TG: jesus dirk calm tf down  
TG: wats going on???  
TT: Listen I have to help Jake first but then I’m coming for you too, okay? But I need you to get someplace safe ASAP.   
TG: dirk SLOWN THE FUCK DOWN  
TG: *slow  
TT: Are you in a defensible location?  
TG: im fine dirk i dont need to get somewher ‘defensible’  
TG: *somewhere  
TT: Roxy, get underground or at the highest point of your house RIGHT FUCKING NOW.

Your growl is literally making your whole body tremble, although that could also just be the panic setting in. Jake pings you again, and you hear the beep of the sendificator letting you know it’s ready to go.

GT: Hey guess what dirk?  
GT: I found the thing that was tapping on my window!  
GT: It *WAS* one of those fairy bulls! He was trying to get at some bugs that were attracted by the light!  
GT: So you see there was NOTHING TO WORRY ABOUT all along!  
TT: What the fuck.  
TT: Jake, tell me you didn’t go outside.  
GT: Its perfectly fucking safe out here dirk. Theres none of the monsters around for miles not at this time of night.  
TT: I TOLD YOU NOT TO LEAVE THE FUCKING HOUSE.  
TT: GET THE FUCK BACK INSIDE.

You’re torn away from the chat with Jake by Roxy.

TG: dirk srsly now jake says ur shouting at him?  
TG: wtf?  
TG: ur grumpy at me all morning and then u freak out over some dumb little thing  
TG: n now ur being angry again?  
TT: Where are you right now?  
TG: christ dirk will u just listen to me  
TT: I SAID WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU.  
TG: O M F G  
TG: ur pissing me off!  
TG: will u stop being such a fucking knothead and listen to me for two fucking seconds?

Knothead.

Knothead.

_Knothead._

The word is like a bucket of ice water poured over your head.

TT: Oh fuck.  
TG: ill say  
TG: r u gonna actually listen now or wut?  
TT: Fuck, Rox, I think I’m rutting.  
TG: ur WHAT???  
TT: Christ, I’ve got all the symptoms; irritability, possessiveness, aggression, overprotectiveness, competitiveness…  
TT: My hands are even shaking because of adrenaline surges.  
TT: Fuck, Roxy, what do I do?

This is, literally, the worst-case scenario.

You were desperately hoping you’d be a Beta. Betas present once and then they’re _done._ Being packless and alone in the middle of the ocean would have been rough for a Beta presentation, you’d have nested like hell and worn yourself down to the bone trying to obsessively sanitize every surface in your apartment, but you would have survived it. And then after that you’d never have to deal with anything like that again.

Presenting as Omega would have been less ideal. You probably would have gone into a dissociative fugue and become near-terminally dehydrated, and then you’d have to go through that four times a year for the rest of your life, which would have been extremely hard on your body.

But at least if you were an Omega you would have _nested_. You would have _stayed in one fucking place_.

Alphas are territorial. Alphas are competitive and aggressive, seeking out and putting down potential rivals. Alphas are known to range far and fucking wide, to attempt to cross nigh-impassable obstacles, to face down incredibly dangerous foes, in order to get to their packs and protect them.

Historically, they’ve been known to _kill_ themselves in those attempts.

And what’s a few thousand miles of ocean and a couple hundred years but a nigh-impassable obstacle?

Roxy and Jake have both been pinging you for a while. Numbly, you open Pesterchum again.

TG: shit ur an alpha?  
TG: ur actually rutting?  
TG: well fuck ok first of all u got 2 calm down  
TG: werent u just telling me how youve been doin all this research into presentation and packlessness?  
TG: u had a plan right? meditation or smth?  
TG: take a deep breath ok  
TG: in thru the nose out thru the mouth  
TG: try 2 cente urself or whetever  
TG: *center *whatever  
TG: dirk?  
TG: u still with me?  
TG: dirk?  
\--  timaeusTestified is an idle chum! --  
TG: nooo fuck dirk  
TG: come back  
\--  timaeusTestified is an idle chum! --  
TG: fuck

GT: Well theres no need to be SO FUCKING RUDE!  
GT: For chrissakes dirk youre really getting on my nerves!  
GT: I am PERFECTLY FINE out here and i dont like you taking that tone with me!  
GT: Dirk are you still there?  
GT: Oh please dont tell me youve tried to sendificate yourself.  
GT: Dirk? Answer me goddamnit!  
GT: Dirk? Are you okay?  
GT: Roxy says youre rutting which quite frankly explains a lot!  
GT: I just dont want you hurting yourself because of me.  
GT: Dirk?  
GT: Come on sport where are you?  
GT: Roxy says she cant get ahold of you either.  
GT: Dirk please answer at least ONE of us were both really worried about you!  
\-- timaeusTestified is an idle chum! --  
GT: Shitknickers.

Your phone drops from your trembling fingers, splintering the glass as it hits the floor. You hardly even notice the tiny shards embedding themselves into your bare feet.

You’re an _Alpha_.

You’re in _rut_.

And you have no goddamn clue what to do about it.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dirk does something incredibly stupid.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay folks, this is the chapter in which drowning occurs. If you have a fear of water, the ocean, or drowning, please take EXTREME caution with this part of the story. Although I have never come close to drowning, I based this chapter on real accounts given by people who _have_ drowned and were resuscitated, so it's probably pretty close to accurate.
> 
> Also, there's a very brief vomit mention, and Dirk is involuntarily pinned down for part of this chapter and panics about it. I've updated the tags to reflect this.
> 
> And with that out of the way, on with the show!

It’s almost like, now that you’re _aware_ this is a rut, everything is hitting you much more strongly. You can identify the urges that keep tugging you in different directions.

First and foremost, there’s an intense ache in your chest - a deep and all-consuming _longing_ for a pack. Your skin actually prickles with the need to have someone - _anyone_ \- touch you, mark you, claim you as their own. Slowly sinking into your bones is the knowledge that you don’t have anyone. There’s no one for you to protect - and no one to protect you.

Nobody _wants_ you. If they did, you’d have your pack around you. But you don’t even _have_ a pack, let alone have them _here_.

You curl your arms around your stomach reflexively, as if by protecting your soft, weak stomach, you’ll be able to protect yourself from your own agonized realization that there’s no one who loves you. The touch of your own hands on your body leaves you feeling cold - you are supremely aware that these are not the hands you _wish_ were touching you.

And you can smell your own scent now, as it has changed dramatically - it’s not the mild, near-nonexistent smell you’ve lived with all your life up until now. It’s thick and almost chemical and _burns_ in the back of your throat. It smells like smoke and machine oil and something leathery and hard and _dead_. Despite how supremely _unfamiliar_ it is, your body seems to know that it’s yours. There’s nothing soothing about this.

The sides of your neck ache. You reach up with one hand to rub, and feel the swell of your mating glands beneath your skin. The dry touch _burns_ and you bite back a scream, feeling tears bead at the edge of your eyes.

As if to torture you, an image rises to your mind, unbidden. A tall blond man, with dark round shades, casually stoic as he always is before a camera, his face turned towards you with cold disdain.

Your throat closes up with longing as you picture your Bro. You wonder what he would have smelled like, how he would have reacted to your first rut. He was an Omega, that was common knowledge, and in articles about him, journalists always described how pleasant his smell was, like fresh strawberries, topped with whipped cream and honey.

You’ve never seen a strawberry in person. Fruit doesn’t last very long, and not even jams will stay good for several centuries. All attempts to make whipped cream from your supply of 400-year-old non-dairy powdered milk have proved futile. And Bro wisely did not leave honey in your apartment, seeing as you’re not supposed to feed that shit to babies and you started breaking into the food supplies basically from the word go.

But it means that you can’t even _imagine_ what your Bro might have smelled like, other than sweet, but sweet is just how every Omega smells.

What would Bro have done, if he was here, if he was your pack? Would he have scent-marked you with his wrists, or cheeks? Would he have held you in his arms and pet your hair and told you it was all going to be okay? Would he have let you mark him in return, let the whole world know that you were ready to defend him?

You don’t know when your legs gave out. You are just suddenly aware that you are lying on your side on the ground, dull pain lancing through you where you must have hit the ground hard. Tears blur your vision and you clutch your stomach even more tightly, curling into the fetal position.

Bro isn’t here. He didn’t want you.

Nobody wants you.

Nobody is _ever_ going to want you.

Nobody will ever love you the way you so desperately crave.

A sob tears its way out of your throat and then you are shaking and _wailing_ , because you are completely, totally, and utterly _alone_ , you’re a young Alpha going through his first rut and you have _no one_ , no pack, no family, no friends. Snot and tears dribble down your face as you cry, unable to hold it in. Your skin is on _fire_ with the need to be touched, held, _loved_ , and you are never going to have that need fulfilled.

It hurts. It hurts physically, but also in your mind, in your _soul_ , in the part of you that is _you_ and not just a fleshy sack of organs held together with skin and bones.

You know this because, when you close your eyes, you see your purple room in the dark tower, and you shake and wail in that body, too, unable to stop yourself from sobbing.

But then you happen to glance out the window of your tower and see _hers._

Roxy. She’s there, she’s right there, you can _get to her_.

It’s not true conscious thought that makes you fly to her tower, as fast as you can, almost as fast as flashstepping. As soon as you arrive you drag yourself into the room and take in deep, panicked breaths of her _scent_.

Her scent is so mild, barely noticeable, and your own aggressive Alpha smoke almost blocks it out, but she’s there, she’s _there,_ she’s lying on that bed in front of you and you rush forward, hand extended, to touch her.

Roxy’s shoulder is soft under her blanket, covered in the plush fabric of her pajamas, and you can’t stop yourself, you lean down to rub your face on her, trying to calm the screaming part of you that says you need _people_ , you need _pack._ She isn’t pack, but she’s _someone_ , she’s more than you’ve ever had, she’s _everything_ , and if she would just wake up, just scent-mark you, she could _become_ pack.

But Roxy is dead asleep.

You shake her, lifting her by the shoulders and watching her head loll as she snores comically. But to you, it’s not funny, it’s _awful_ , she’s not waking up and she’s not scent-marking you, she’s not claiming you as her pack. Frantic, you press your face to her cheek, tangle your hands in her hair, desperately marking her and praying that just a little of her scent can rub off on you.

It’s not working. Roxy isn’t your pack. If anything, sitting here clutching her dream self in your arms only makes you feel even more alone, even _more_ rejected, because she’s right here and she _still doesn’t want you._

In your other body, back on earth, you force yourself to your hands and knees. You _have_ to have a pack. You _have_ to. You’ll die without a pack around you. Every instinct inside you is _screaming._

If you don’t have one, you’ll fucking _make one_.

Which means you have to get to Roxy. Real Roxy, not Dream Roxy.

(You can only hope she wants you as desperately as you want and _need_ her.)

You’ve calculated this a thousand times. You know which direction you have to go.

You pull your shirt off and shuck your pants, not caring where they land, as you crawl out the living room window and begin to clamber down the outside of your apartment. When you’re not far from the surface you simply jump and dive straight into the water. A flock of seagulls squawks and crowds around you, because they’re used to you catching fish and enjoy feasting on the entrails you leave behind.

But your mind isn’t on food right now. You have an entirely different hunger stirring your belly, a craving for companionship that _cannot_ be ignored.

Kicking your legs, you begin to swim. You don’t care how long it takes, you’re _going_ to make it to Roxy.

You don’t know how long you swim, the heightened adrenaline and testosterone of rut giving you strength far beyond what you normally possess. It’s long enough that the sun is high in the sky by the time the cold of the water makes you shiver, and fatigue begins to sink into your bones.

You ignore this. You keep going. You _have_ to get to a pack.

The drive to keep going, to _find your pack_ , does not abate, not even when your trembling limbs begin to give out on you, and you wrap your shivering arms around yourself, kicking with legs that grow steadily weaker. It’s only when you realize that you’re having trouble keeping your head above the water that the true panic sets in, and all desire to keep going disappears.

You are not in control of your movements as your legs fall below you, perpendicular to the ocean waves. You tilt your head back, pushing down against the water with trembling arms as though this will save you. Whenever your mouth rises above the surface you gasp a desperate breath, but all too soon your mouth stops leaving the water.

You can’t speak, you don’t have enough _air_ to speak. You can’t move beyond this involuntary paddling downward, trying to keep your head bobbing above the water and not succeeding. You can’t cry out for help.

Not that there’s anyone out here to hear your call.

You’re going to die.

You’re going to drown.

As your body sinks below the water, you can do nothing but struggle uselessly, staring up at the sun above your head, reaching with fingers that have no strength. You feel your throat close up. You hold your breath as long as you can, feeling your lungs burning, spots appearing at the edges of your vision.

You can’t hold it anymore and suck in, salt water filling your mouth as the blackness takes you.

The last thing you think you see before death is a large shape moving towards you.

…

Waking up is a surprise.

Awareness comes to you incredibly slowly, like it’s seeping into your body via osmosis. Your throat burns the way it does after you’ve just vomited. You don’t know where you are. You can’t figure out what’s going on. There’s a soft touch all over your body, and the world feels tilted sideways. Light filters into your eyes but you don’t understand the shapes you are seeing. You feel cold. You wonder for a little bit if you are still drowning.

After a second you realize you can smell vomit, and yeah, there’s a puddle of it right in front of your face. You’re lying on your side, on the floor of your apartment, and although you’re chilly as fuck, you can also feel the weight of a blanket around your shoulders - that touch.

But you’re fucking _alive_ after you just drowned in the ocean hours away from here and that’s a goddamn miracle.

There’s a figure looming over you, tall and impressive, and for half a delirious second you think that it’s your _Bro_ , that he somehow came through time to rescue you, to be _here_ for you in your darkest hour, and that everything will be okay.

After a moment, the blurry figure resolves itself, and you realize that it’s _Sawtooth_.

Tears fill your eyes, and you don’t know whether it’s pathetic gratefulness and relief that your bot just saved your goddamn life, or disappointment that it’s just Sawtooth and _not_ actually your Bro, not actually a human person here to be your pack.

Your _pack_.

You’re lying here exhausted and you’re barely alive after fucking _drowning_ and your stupid goddamn rut brain is screaming _YOU HAVE TO GET TO YOUR PACK RIGHT FUCKING NOW._

Shaking, you try to push yourself up off the floor. Gently, but with firm pressure, Sawtooth holds you down with one hand, so that you can’t rise.

You don’t want to fight him. You _don’t_. Your brain and body are both exhausted and you _really_ don’t want to fucking die. But because your brain is so weary, you can’t control the instinctive impulses that seize you. Your hands clamp down involuntarily on his mechanical arm and you kick and struggle, trying to throw him off you.

“ _Please_ ,” you wheeze out, your voice sounding like a death rattle. “Please, Sawtooth, I _have_ to, I _have_ to get to them, let me go, let me _go_ , _let me go let me go let me go-”_

You fall into a hoarse chant of those words, let me go, let me go, even as you flail underneath him. You keep slamming into the metal of his arms and legs, and the pain blossoming across your limbs makes something in your head flip to _you are in danger_.

You’re _trapped_ , held down, you can’t _move_ , this _thing_ above you has you pinned to your floor and _you can’t get to your pack_.

You scream, raw and desperate, and try to bite and claw at him, uselessly. Pure terror takes your body as he moves over you, to hold you down even more firmly, and his weight settles on your chest and you can’t fucking _move_. Within seconds tears start dribbling down your face, and you think you’re going to throw up.

You scream and scream and scream and scream until your throat feels like it has torn itself open, like blood is dripping down the back of your throat. You thrash the whole time and keep _on_ thrashing when your voice finally gives out, furiously grappling with the unmoving body above you. You claw until the tips of your fingers start to bleed, bite until you cut your lips on the sharp metal, but still he does not let up, and still, you cannot escape.

Your struggles grow weaker and weaker as the sun sinks lower in the sky, until you finally succumb once more to exhaustion and pass out.

The pattern continues for what feels like years. You wake up, fight against the inexorable bulk of Sawtooth with every ounce of strength you have, until you grow too tired to move and fall unconscious. It seems like your whole being is narrowed down to nothing but the fight to escape and the desperate terror every time you _can’t_.

Eventually, after what feels like a small eternity but must only have lasted a few days (you hope), you wake up to a dawn-colored room and realize you’re _not_ fighting with everything in you. There is no voice in the back of your head telling you that you _must_ find your pack - everything is blissfully quiet. The stoic weight of the robot above you is no longer an oppressive trap, but the comforting pressure of _safety_.

You are desperately thirsty, your head aches like you’ve pounded it on an anvil until your brain flattened between your ears, and a gnawing hunger fills your stomach.

But you’re alive.

You survived your first rut - barely.

Now you just have to figure out how to make it through four of those a year for the rest of your life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope Sawtooth saving the day at the end there doesn't feel *too* Deus Ex Machina - we never get an exact build date for Sawtooth and Squarewave in Homestuck canon, so I decided to make them bots that Dirk built fairly young, as a way to practice both talking and rapping. Dirk is _incredibly_ lucky that Sawtooth happened to be flying his way that day, or otherwise, there wouldn't be any more story left to tell about Dirk Strider.
> 
> Thank you all so much for reading! I'm excited to keep writing more of Act Two. There should be another chapter of "Just Because I'm Moving Doesn't Mean I'm Not a Corpse" coming out sometime next week, a chapter which I am _very_ excited for!


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